


Hell Of An Angel

by WaitingToBeBroken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Shares His Food, Crowley is Whipped (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mafia Boss, Doesn't Go Well For Them, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Not that Aziraphale Needs It, Not that he knows, POV Outsider, People Try To Kidnap Aziraphale, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), What else is new
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaitingToBeBroken/pseuds/WaitingToBeBroken
Summary: Many people, seeing Crowley for the first time, from afar, if they were lucky, formed three impressions.First, he was obviously wealthy. There was a certain way he held himself, a certain glow that not really stated outright, more like hinted, that he did have a price. Only, it was a few dozen zeroes too long for anyone to be able to afford it.Second, he was dangerous. The way he moved, like a snake big enough to devour you whole, like a tiger, who had chosen the world as his prey. Like he could have you killed with a twitch of his finger, and right now, right now he was feelingtwitchy.And finally, Crowley was, well, he was alone.  No one even had proof therewasa Crowley family, but it was the only way it made sense. It couldn't very well be the result of a single man's work, could it?John, the head of the second most powerful mafia family in London was about to find out how misconstrued some of these notions were.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 1493
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love, Chaste Omens, Good Omens (Complete works), Outstanding Outsider POVs





	Hell Of An Angel

Many people, seeing Crowley for the first time, from afar, if they were lucky, formed three impressions.

First, he was obviously wealthy. It wasn't only the vintage car or the designer clothes or even the apartment in Mayfair, only those particularly doomed had visited. No, it was something else. There was a certain way he held himself, a certain glow that not really stated outright, more like hinted, that he did have a price. Only, it was a few dozen zeroes too long for anyone to be able to afford it.

Second, he was dangerous. One didn't have to _see_ him to know this. There were tales, older than the people telling them in hushed voiced, older than the city itself, of the Crowley family. They were merciless and cruel, disaster following in their wake wherever they went. The great fire of London, cousin Larry would whisper with a knowing look, only for everyone to snort at his drunken antics. But there would be no laughter after the initial disbelief, only a few raised eyebrows and a silent thoughtful hum in the background of the room. 

Crowley, that is Anthony Crowley the _n_ th, did not dissuade that notion. The way he moved, like a snake big enough to devour you whole, like a tiger, who had chosen the world as his prey. Like he could have you killed with a twitch of his finger, and right now, right now he was feeling _twitchy_. There were too many teeth in his mouth when he smirked, voices of people, suffered from the same, similar fate, would whisper. And his eyes, they would trail off and they would make one wonder if they were even real. 

Finally, Crowley was, well, he was alone. He wasn't lonely, only those foolish enough would claim that he was. But in all instances of recorded Crowley family sightings, there was only one constant. The time would be different, the continent would vary, but the man would always be _alone_. No one even had proof there _was_ a Crowley crime family, but it was the only way it made sense. The terror they brought, always almost on a laughably small scale but never failing to reach critical chaos once everyone's eyes were turned away. Well, it couldn't very well be the result of a single man's work, could it? Not even a single family tree. No, it was much more organised than that.

They were good at that, the Crowleys. They took in the whole gallery while everyone was too focused on a single picture.

John, the head of the second most powerful mafia family in London was about to find out how misconstrued some of these notions were.

* * *

It was a nice Saturday. Most Saturdays were, nowadays. It was sunny and serene, birds singing all around, even where birds were not supposed to be. It was climate change, people were saying, slathering themselves with sun cream, it wasn't natural. John wasn't so sure. There was something in the air, something light, foreign yet not exactly. As if a feeling he had always been familiar with, but one he had never felt so _potently_ , making everything appear just a little bit brighter. 

Anyway, whatever it was, it was a sunny weekend and it would be a damn waste to spend it indoors, staring at the same four walls. Isa's words, not his. John wouldn't have minded, there was some paperwork he needed to catch up on, not to mention the weekly report on one of their more _profitable_ greenhouses he hadn't had the chance to look at. And he was sweating, and he could _feel_ his skin boiling just this side of painful but, well, whatever his love wanted, she got.

So that's how he found himself in St. James' park, sitting on a bench, people-watching while his wife babbled on about her new martial arts instructor. He was listening, honest. But it was hard- not being on edge, always expecting your enemy to jump out of the bushes and strangle you. Isa was, fortunately, understanding enough, throwing him these adorable half-smiles when he would stare too hard at someone wearing too much black. And at the end of the day, it was the time they had spent together, his wife would no doubt sigh later tonight, over a glass of her favourite wine and she would gaze at him and suddenly it would make sense why he was outside in broad daylight where everyone could attack them. 

John was just beginning to relax, feeling his shoulders sag with the release of tension he hadn't known he was carrying, when it happened. His enemy jumped out of the bushes and strangled him.

Or, well. That is to say, his enemy sauntered down the pathway, holding a cone and a paper cup, both filled with ice cream, and plopped down a bench near the lake, just a few hundred yards away from them. John watched the cone wobble, dangerously close to tipping over. Which, he would not have blamed it for, what with the sheer _amount_ of ice cream balanced on a single paper-thin waffle. Honestly, some people. He would have tutted disapprovingly but he was too frozen in shock to do so. Because he knew these sharp features, the red hair, the always-present sunglasses. He had seen pictures, he had heard the stories. 

For a moment, he wondered if the man was planning something. He found himself tensing, gaze sweeping around as if expecting an arrow to pop out and show him exactly where a bomb had been planted or who out of all those smiling people was part of the other's organisation. The Crowleys were known for their schemes, everyone knew that it was bad luck to see one in person. John, himself, had studied them for as long as he had been alive and he couldn't agree more. Yet, he had never found a report of a time where a Crowley had intentionally _hurt_ people. Sure, everyone remembered when they had taken down every network in London and who could forget those mass hallucinations just a month prior that everyone claimed was their fault. But they were never violent for the sake of violence. It was always more convoluted than that. Besides, John tried to remind himself, _he_ wouldn't be here, if he was blowing up the park.

"Everything okay, dove?" Isa asked from beside him, voice going unnaturally low as she squinted in the direction he was looking at. Unfortunately for her, and quite fortunately for John, his gaze had been glued to the same pair of ducks for over 30 minutes, as he used his peripheral vision to keep an eye on everything. 

"Just thinking." He shrugged his shoulders. His wife hummed, not entirely convinced. Damn it, but she knew him too well. "'Bout the ducks."

He scooted closer, almost involuntarily and his wife tucked herself under his arm, continuing her story about Sherry from work and her horrible nail polish choices this week. But her voice was much softer now, dull and careful, and her eyes were trained on those same ducks John had been looking at.

A third duck waddled towards the pair and another man joined Crowley. For a moment, John was left so shocked he almost did the one thing that he had never done. He almost failed at his best skill, the only thing that had guaranteed his safety in all the years leading his family. He almost showed them he was watching. He wouldn't have normally done that, hell, he wouldn't have even reacted. But the newcomer, well, he looked... sweet. There was no other way to describe him, as much as John tried. He was dressed in the weirdest clothes John had ever seen, which, for some reason, must have made a pretty decent disguise, because nobody was even sparing him a second glance. He should remember that, the man thought to himself, just in case. 

But there was something in the way the man in white smiled, so open, so unguarded, so unlike anything John was so used to seeing in his line of work. And there was a wiggle, the tiniest of things, as he settled down, that should have looked comical coming from someone who was not a 5 year old girl, but just looked... sweet. He knew he was overusing that word, but it was a neon sign, flashing at the front-side of his mind whenever the corner of his eyes caught sight of white curls. Honestly, such a man had no place sitting next to Crowley. 

John knew it and, worst of all, so did Crowley.

He watched silently as his worst enemy stiffened at no longer being alone. He bit back a warning as Crowley flashed his one-too-many teeth at his companion. Waited for the quiet violence the man exuded with every move of his long body, the whisper that was not really a threat, but a promise. A muscle in John's jaw twitched as he saw Crowley gesture with the hand that was holding a cone. Idly, he wondered if one could use ice cream as a weapon. Mostly, he tried to think of a way to save the sweet man without revealing himself.

And then... And then it just got worse. Because the sweet man was grabbing the ice cream, sealing his fate and if he thought that blinding smile would help him when facing Crowley's wrath... Well, he would have been absolutely right, because the man was shrugging, the barest twitch of his shoulders and John wouldn't have been alive for as long as he had if he was stupid or unable to assimilate new information quickly.

They knew each other. Even more, if the subtle way Crowley's body was suddenly leaning closer, almost, _barely_ in the sweet man's personal bubble. The man in white was probably an informant. Inwardly, John hummed thoughtfully. So the ridiculous get-up did work. Hide in plain sight and all that. He should probably remember that.

"Anything from your side?" Crowley asked, a lazy drawl that made him sound disinterested. Or should have, if not for the way his voice had pitched, just this side of high, when he had said 'side'. He still hadn't spared his companion a glance, or at least that's how it looked, with the way he was positioned. John was sure the man was utilising his shades just as well as John was using the corner of his eyes.

He had tried wearing glasses as well. There was so much one could get away with while hiding his gaze, not to mention the removed strain on his eyes. But Isa had laughed at him the first time she had seen him and he couldn't help but agree. His face was too small, thank you, mum, and the glasses made him resemble a bug. Not exactly someone you would fail to notice if you saw them on the street. On the other hand, now that he was looking at the sweet man he couldn't help but wonder...

"Nothing. And you?" 

John couldn't quite see the man's face, not with the way Crowley was almost shielding him, but he had enough experience to make out the trepidation behind the words. The fear, the 'not yet, but soon' that laced the sweet man's voice, that probably tasted as sour as it sounded. John couldn't stop the grimace that overtook his features for a moment, just enough for Isa to stiffen next to him. Damn him and damn her for knowing him so well. He squeezed her shoulder, drawing her closer and she came, willing and warm, a solid weight against him. God, he loved her so much.

He continued half-watching the men, half-listening to his wife. There was something about them, something so subtle, deep beneath the surface. With the way they stood, bodies angled oh-so-slightly towards the other, with the way they didn't quite look at each other and yet they were so _aware_ of the other's presence. And not in the way John was aware of theirs. 

It was lighter, soft hues against John's bright red panic and distrust. He couldn't help but be drawn towards it. 

The ducks were leaving now, all three of them, drifting towards the shore slowly. The sweet man was just finishing his ice cream and John didn't want to admit that he was waiting for what would happen next. Would they talk more? Maybe discuss those _sides_ they had mentioned? For a moment, a ridiculous second, the man wondered if the guy in white was police. That would certainly explain the clandestine meeting in the park, the _your_ side, the way the men looked almost as if they were so used to having to pretend they were not together that now, when no one was paying attention to them, they wouldn't even acknowledge the other.

The sweet man didn't look like police. He was too soft, all round gentleness where John was used to seeing cutting sharpness. But there was something about him, something that made the back of John's neck prickle in a way that had saved him so many times. He wasn't police, not really, but he was _something_. Something that smiled condescendingly, told you that you were wrong. Something that was better than you, in an important way you could never change and not that he was _gloating_ about that fact but...

Perhaps, he was a teacher? 

The sweet man ate the last bit of his cone, sighing contently and John held his breath. Finally, Crowley turned towards his companion, leaning in such a way that blocked John's view of the man in white. It looked so natural, smooth in a way that made John have no doubt it was intentional. There was a brief pause, when for the untrained eye both men stood still. But John could see a twitch here, a move of the muscle there, a shift of weight towards another warm body where there shouldn't have been one. A series of movements, a dance only they recognised and one that reminded John suddenly of his place as an outsider. Then Crowley was pulling away and the sweet man was gleefully digging into the paper cup filled with ice cream the other man had been holding the whole time and John was realising two things.

One, and the more obvious one, and thus easier to process. That was probably the reason why one ice cream had been in a cone and the other one in a cup. In the beginning John had just assumed it was a simple preference, then thought it was a cover. Quite a ridiculous one, since Crowley never once took a single bite out of it. But maybe, that was because it wasn't for him. Which led him to...

Second, and this was stranger in a way that was weirdly familiar. He looked down at Isa, the way she was tucked against him, like she fit so well, like she had been made for him to hold her so. Then, he raised his eyes towards Crowley and how he was slumped towards the other man, splayed in a way that screamed he would be ready to jump if only the other raised a finger, twitched a muscle. 

Huh.

* * *

Amy was not happy. She was cold and she was soaking wet and she was pretty sure her limbs would freeze that way if she continued crouching behind the dumpster. And, the smell, oh, God, _the smell_. Despite the groaning of her muscles, she lowered herself, trying to escape one stinking end and replacing it with, somehow, an even worse one. 

"I don't see the point," she grumbled, for possibly the hundredth time this hour. It was the fifth actually, Brad was keeping count. It was the only interesting thing that was happening. It was the only _thing_ that was happening.

"Boss said he saw him get fed ice cream by the old geezer." Brad shrugged as if it explained everything. It probably did, he had already given the full explanation 4 times already. Amy's brain flashed guiltily to that BBQ last Saturday where she had taken a bite from Susie's burger after she had dangled it in front of her mouth and made those puppy eyes of hers. Amy did work for the mafia but she wasn't a _monster_ , how was she expected to say no to that.

Even then, she could hardly imagine the famous _Crowley_ being mouth-fed like some overgrown babe. And liking it! It must have been a mistake, maybe some other red-haired pole-of-a-man had been seen in a compromising situation with the old man. And now she was stalking a bookshop, her skin getting positively soaked with all sorts of smells because of it. Wouldn't that be fun?

An eternity, or as Brad would point out- 1 hour and 34 minutes later, the door of the bookshop opened and a man sauntered out. At least, it could have been a man, it certainly _looked_ like one, but there was an air around him, like he had been jogging towards a man before gently curving and slamming head first into a snake. 

It was Crowley, alright. She had heard enough stories to know that much.

"Remember, we are not to harm even a hair on the old git's head. We sneak inside, have a lovely little chat with that _Ezra Fell_ and we leave. Boss was very specific," Brad, who had joined the organisation just a few months before her and that made him the leader, obviously, reminded her. She shrugged. He did have a mind for plans. She, well, she mostly liked hitting things. And the violin, but one would find how _much_ she liked hitting things if they ever mentioned that.

They made a good team, altogether. 

They didn't go through the front door. They would have been stupid to. No self-respecting mafia grunt would ever just waltz through the front door. Not to mention they had both heard the clear-as-Hell bell when Crowley had taken his leave. To walk through the main entrance would be to announce their presence with... well, a bell.

Amy watched as her left hand, as if at that exact point in time- a separate entity, reached for the handle and twisted it. The bell rung, clear and cheerful, ricocheting inside their suddenly vacant minds. A voice spoke immediately.

"Ah, welcome, sir." The man's eyes flickered towards Amy before she could even clear her throat pointedly. "Madam. How may I help you?"

Amy and Brad looked at each other. There was no mistaking the picture they made- two black-clad, balaclava-wearing, lumpy in all the wrong places, people, barging in a bookshop a little after midnight. And there was the man staring at them, pleasantly smiling, pleasantly charming, hair, pleasantly ruffled. Just so... _pleasant_. Almost unnaturally so.

Brad spoke first, "There is no need to be afraid."

It must have been the light, whatever little there was of it, because Amy could swear the smile got sharper, somehow. As if Ezra Fell had suddenly found himself in the possession of more teeth than he knew what to do with.

"I assure you that I'm not," the man said, head tilting. His eyes flickered, down and then up again, as if sizing them up. It was so fast Amy almost thought she had imagined it. But she hadn't, she knew she hadn't. In her line of business you either noticed these things or you didn't live long enough to try again. Subtly, she felt Brad shift, so he was standing half in front of her.

"We won't hurt you," she tried to reassure Ezra. As if somewhere from outside her body, she wondered if she was trying to make him less afraid, or if her words were entirely for their own benefit. Her voice was shaking and she tried to smile. It wouldn't show over the balaclava but something in her, some ancient and primal part of her whispered that the man in front of her will _know_.

"Oh, I'm sure you won't, my dear." The smile widened, taking on a glassy quality. There were wrinkles around the man's eyes, laughter lines that reminded her of a tiger's stripes. "Why don't we take this to the backroom?"

The man turned around, turned his _back_ on two suspicious-looking strangers, and the thing was... Amy was going to follow after him. The man was like a freaking cloud, fluffy-looking, all pretty imaginary shapes until he turned dark and drowned all of your crops. And he was warmth, and he was familiarity in a way she hadn't felt for so long, _don't think about that_ , before you realised the warmth was coming from your own body, from your own skin, burning to a crisp. And yet, she was going to follow him. She felt Brad shift next to her, taking another half-step towards her, and a full step after that man.

They were both going to follow after him. If not for the sudden crash, somewhere in the depth of the bookshop, and the man, rushing towards them with all the grace of a three-legged giraffe. Even if it was impossible, even if she had watched him with her own two eyes leave the bookshop, enter his car and drive off, Amy recognised him immediately. Without moving a single muscle, she looked at Brad. For all the shit they liked to talk to each other, she knew he would get them out of here. He could be ridiculously annoying, with all his _actually_ s and his _numbers_ but he had a mind for plans. Amy was just the muscle and that was okay. You learned early on what you were good at, found a partner that would complement all your weaknesses and trusted them completely. Because if you didn't, well, you wouldn't get a second chance, now, would you?

In front of her, the two men were staring at each other wordlessly. Figuring she could just leave Brad to his own thing, she focused on her own. She was a people's person, and mostly that meant she _dealt_ with the people, but she was also quite good at reading them, too. Brad was not so good. Give him numbers, quizzes, puzzles, he would always shrug, and she understood the sentiment. In her experience, people were also a sort of puzzle, not a very complicated one usually, yet, it was fun, jumbling up the pieces and coming up with all sorts of pictures.

She didn't quite know what to make of the two men in front of her. She had heard the stories about Crowley, everybody had. And the guy in front of her certainly fit the description, with his flaming hair and signature glasses and cutting features that whispered shakily to the part of your brain leftover from the time people still hid in caves, "Are you sure dragons don't exist?" Yet, she had trouble reconciling the image she had built, slowly and meticulously over the years in her mind, with the man she was seeing now. This was not the same man who had once organised a neo-Nazi protest just so he could hit all the banks in London, simultaneously. The way he had come into the room, stumbling over his own legs. How he was holding onto Ezra now, clinging to his wrist if it was the only thing holding him upright. The way the corners of his eyes had softened with each appraising second, making the voice in her head quiet down.

He still looked serpentine, but almost harmless, now. A snake, but the garden variety, that if left alone would slither on its merry way. 

"You," Crowley hissed, whipping around to face them. There was a sharpness to him, in the way he flashed his teeth, in the corner of his mouth. Like he was a giant claw, a single sharp point of pain and they were nothing but mice. Amy flinched, tried to scramble back. But no, she didn't. She didn't move but not because she wasn't able to. She was simply... _choosing_ not to. She risked a glance towards Brad only to note the same relaxed stance tightening in his shoulders, the way his calculating gaze had dimmed down.

"My dear," Ezra whispered, the endearment rolling off his tongue so much differently than before, when it had been aimed at them. "I assure you they did nothing wrong."

" _Yet_." Crowley growled but even then it was mellow, more a scared cat than a hungry lion, when he turned towards his partner. He stalked forward, towering over the other in a way that should have looked intimidating. With anyone else, it would have. Now, it mostly gave the illusion of him, shielding the other with his body. "They haven't done anything wrong, _yet_ , angel."

Ezra drew himself up, straightened his coat. "And if they had I would have protected myself," he said, slowly, pointedly and if Amy hadn't stared down the white chasm that was the prim bookkeeper and wondered how many limbs would be missing once it spit her back out, she would have laughed. She didn't quite feel like laughing right now. 

Not even when the great Crowley, the head of the biggest mafia family in London spluttered, his mouth forming a lopsided 'O'. He glanced at them incredulously, as if to ask," Are you hearing this?" before he focused his black circles on his partner.

"Y-yeah, but," he started, stopped, ran deep trenches inside the flames of his hair. "You don't have to. You know I will always..." At this, the man trailed off, hands balling into fists, as if there was so much more he wanted to say but couldn't bring himself to. Amy knew what that was like, showing emotions when you had spent so much time pretending you had none. Tearing bricks with your own bleeding hands from a wall that had stood invisible for too long.

"I know, my love." There was so much feeling inside those words that if she could move, if she _wanted to move_ , she would have turned away to give them some privacy. The fact that she wouldn't use her freedom to make a run for it did occur to her, slowly, sluggishly, before being chased away by a voice that didn't quite sound like her own.

In front of her, the bookkeeper reached out for Crowley, lacing their fingers together. He looked almost cherubic now, all soft smiles and even softer eyes. It almost felt as if his face had always _meant_ to look this way. 

"Why don't you wait for me in the back? I can take care of this." There was something in the way Ezra asked this, a gentle, whispered request that would have made even Amy do whatever he wanted of her. She could feel the desire to keep the man happy, smiling as he was, a prickle beneath her skin. Still, Crowley hesitated. "Please?"

And just like that, one of the most powerful men in London was shaking his head, shoulders sagging as he turned around. He still growled at them, teeth unnaturally long and sharp, promising eons of pain, but it felt half-hearted, somehow. 

"Now, my dears. Where were we?" 

The other man turned his smile on them. It wasn't the same one, it wasn't even its shadow. Gentle creases had turned into lines etched into marble. Ezra's eyes were dark, cold, frozen and Amy found herself shuddering despite herself. She wanted to run, the desire sharp and almost drowning that soft voice inside her head that told her that, no, no, she didn't. She really wanted to run, or cry, or apologise. All she had wanted was some job security, really. She hadn't planned on being a mafia grunt. But, you know how it is, with the economy, and nobody is hiring and suddenly your girlfriend has an injury at work, that _of course_ they claim was not their fault and the bills are pilling up and...

'It's all going to be okay,' that same voice whispered gently but somehow Amy didn't believe it.

Strangely, before the darkness enveloped her mind, she kind of wished that Crowley hadn't left. 

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, Zira didn't hurt them. But if tomorrow Amy finds herself with a job teaching little children how to play the violin and Brad does whatever nerdy stuff he likes to do... well, what would be the harm? And Zira would certainly never get bothered again.
> 
> Also, for the record! The neo-Nazi protest was a complete coincidence and Crowley is still pissed people remember that and not the fact he managed to pull a heist in every. Single. Bank. In. London.
> 
> As always, I had so much fun writing this! Certainly, we all deserve some silliness in our lives. I really hope you liked it!


End file.
